


Plain Sight

by htebazytook



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Time, Humor, M/M, Meta, Olympics, Post Reichenbach, Romance, Slash, Smut, Wall Sex, london 2012
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-23
Updated: 2012-06-23
Packaged: 2017-11-08 10:02:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/442005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has computer trouble during the London Olympics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plain Sight

**Author's Note:**

> A smorgasbord of crackpot theories, with a heaping helping of Reichenfeelings for dessert. I swear this is not exclusively angsty.

**Title:** Plain Sight  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[**htebazytook**](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Warnings:** none  
 **Disclaimer:** <—  
 **Pairing:** John/Sherlock  
 **Time Frame:** during, but mostly after The Reichenbach Fall  
 **Author's Notes:** A smorgasbord of crackpot theories, with a heaping helping of Reichenfeelings for dessert. I swear this is not exclusively angsty.  
 **Summary:** John has computer trouble during the London Olympics.

 

 

"No, I know you for real."

"A hundred percent?"

"Well, nobody could fake being such an annoying _dick_ all the time."

Hint of a smile there, but John is much too anxious to feel accomplished about it. He turns back to the window and tries not to let it show how much he doubts him. Not the fraud thing, obviously. It's just that John doesn't think Sherlock has much of a plan, and he doesn't think Sherlock believes rules generally apply to him, and both of those things put together could backfire rather spectacularly. John doesn't know how to say _You're not always exempt from the real world_ or _This is really happening and you aren't taking it seriously enough and what am I supposed to do?_

Sherlock's been staring at him for a long time, which is saying something. He then stands up from the table with _such_ agitation, like an echo of his outburst a moment ago.

John backs up a bit on instinct, and then backs up some more when Sherlock stalks over to him.

Sherlock sinks further into shadow as he nears the window, from pale skin to head-to-toe darkness and his bright, furious eyes that never leave John for a second.

"Don't react," Sherlock says, and John's already begun to formulate a response when Sherlock leans in and kisses him. Easily, and without touching him at all otherwise, like he's afraid that that would be too much, or maybe he's just supremely confident that the sudden slide of their lips will be statement enough.

It is. John doesn't know what to do other than comply—that seems to be written in his DNA when it comes to Sherlock. He kisses back but doesn't close his eyes until Sherlock's open and bore into him, all out of focus, and that just tastes too tragic for John to deal with, so he lets his lids fall finally shut and tilts his head sideways to keep them kissing.

Sherlock pulls back just when John's mind's turned blissfully blank. John looks down, keeps his eyes closed and breathes carefully. He opens them in time to see Sherlock finish studying him—he'd been waiting on whatever was in John's eyes to conclude his silent internal deductions. Sherlock turns to g—

John catches his wrist, meets his eyes unflinchingly, doesn't breathe during the pause and lets Sherlock kiss him up against the messy bookshelf. It teeters unsteadily and the impact jolts John's eyes open for a minute. He glimpses the mocking spray painted smiley face on the wall, glowing there out of the dimness. Shelves and forgotten odds and ends of Sherlock's dig painfully into John's back and feel like a metaphor.

John isn't sure what Sherlock had expected him to do, exactly, but anyway John doesn't react as he might have under different circumstances. If this was happening out of the blue in the back of a cab or clumsily in the foyer after a night of drinking John probably would've been overwhelmed with fear and want and hope about it. As it is, he's already busy feeling all of those, so in this context kissing Sherlock loses some of its punch because Sherlock being locked up and slandered and taken away from him is more fundamentally alarming than some stupid nervous crush and wondering whether Sherlock wants John back. It seems that he does, but the realization bounces uselessly off the wall of simmering panic that's lodged itself in John's chest.

Sherlock pulls back enough to point out, "You reacted."

"Right." Blinks at him. "No, yeah. Sorry. So—are we _talking_ about this, now?"

Sherlock snorts. " _God_ no."

Then he kisses John again, kisses across his jaw and deviates down his neck but if they keep going like this John's going to have to shag him right here against the bookshelf with Lestrade pounding at the door. John grabs Sherlock's chin, tilts it up for more kissing and the heat of the moment simply can't be sustained, so the hard, frantic kisses gradually settle into slower, more searching ones. Undulating little nods into kiss after kiss that drop off when Sherlock's mouth lands on John's cheekbone instead, then roams upward until he's just sort of holding John to him and breathing shallowly into his hair.

"So let me get this straight," John murmurs indistinctly. "One insult is all it takes to inspire you to . . . well. Suffice it to say, I'm surprised you haven't just had it off with Donovan in the middle of a crime scene, by now."

"It's different with you."

John snorts. "Oh really? How's that?"

"You know."

John stares right back at him for a minute, then angles his head up the tiny bit he needs to to turn their standoff into a kiss. It's impossible not to, what with Sherlock's scent and fascinating mouth and lusciously pitched voice . . .

A siren sounds outside.

John breaks the kiss. "I—" clears his throat "—guess we should sto—"

"Too soon," Sherlock says, but he backs off anyway. Puts some distance between them and runs a restless hand through his hair. "Ten minutes to the Met and back—add an extra twenty to account for Donovan's parking skills and Lestrade narrowly avoiding getting fired. Your phone's on, right?"

John frowns at the non sequitur. "Um yeah. Listen, _are_ we going to talk about this?"

"Better not."

They stare at each other for a beat. Then Sherlock kisses him again, thoroughly, and for a very long time.

John's eyes are heavy lidded when Sherlock pauses to gasp for air. "Sherlock. We'd really better, ah, calm down before the police get here. I don't much fancy Donovan and the Snide Wonder for an audience."

"Let's stop talking about Donovan," Sherlock advises. "Who would you prefer for an audience?"

John deadpans: "Oh, I dunno. Perhaps Molly, just because I'm dying to know how she'd react."

"Huh. Thought you'd go for Irene, actually."

"Well, that's a bit impossible, isn't it?"

"How is it—? Oh, right. Yes. Quite impossible."

John narrows his eyes. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock goes back to his computer, which seems much farther away than it had before, and doesn't respond.

"What _are_ you doing with that thing, anyway?"

Instead of answering: "I'll . . . miss you. Yes." Sherlock says it like it's some unexpected epiphany that he isn't sure how to feel about.

John tries to laugh, settles for pacing. "Oh come on, you won't be gone long. Your brother can spring you if he's so inclined, and if you think I'm going to let them get away with this just because they're the police . . ."

Sherlock quirks another smile, types frantically and fiddles with the camera and repeats more wryly, " _I'll_ miss you," then laughs a little. John watches him shut his laptop and relocate to an armchair where he steeples his fingers, stares into the middle distance like he's forgotten John exists already.

John doesn't know what to say, so he takes a step toward him. "Sher—"

John's phone rings.

*

> 16 June, 12:00 (1 minute ago)

> Subject: none  
>  from: _Sherlock Holmes_  
>  to: _me_  
> 

> Why aren't you answering your phone? Ricoletti's wife is the key. Get off your computer and meet me at Blackfriars before she gets away.

> Bring your gun.

> Sent from my iPhone

John deletes it, heart racing. Unfortunately, deleting emails does little to help him forget they'd been there in the first place. Weird, cruelly hopeful things like this happened every so often, and John couldn't help believing, fleetingly, that Sherlock was still here to give him a sign. For God's sake, was it so much to ask that nothing happen on _this_ day, at least? The flat feels suddenly claustrophobic, so he grabs his phone and goes downstairs.

Mrs Hudson greets John with a smile like she'd been expecting him. She makes him tea and pops on the telly, and John lets the bland, uncomplicated familiarity of her favorite frivolous shows fill his brain.

This is exactly what John had always done in the past to escape ceaseless monologues and disruptive experiments, upstairs, but Mrs Hudson thankfully never points this out. They sit silently side-by-side and refuse to acknowledge how John doesn't just want to forget about annoyances like he had so many times before—he wants to forget about ever having been annoyed. And Mrs Hudson lets him, and doesn't complain and just, you know, John might love her more than he's ever loved anyone, really, just for that.

"Why's it called 'diamond', then?" John asks.

"Well, pay attention and you'll find out!" Mrs Hudson rolls her eyes. Yes, John definitely loves her more than anyone, ever. "I suppose because diamonds are so expensive."

"You know, I don't know that women like diamonds as much as everyone says."

Mrs Hudson pats his arm. "Oh, of course you think that, dear."

"It must be a bit off-putting, a sixty-years celebration," John says, watching royals strut pastel-ly around on the telly. "Like getting the lifetime achievement award or something. Seems to imply nobody thinks you've got much left in you."

"You really do overthink things." Mrs Hudson shakes her head. "There's such a thing as thinking _too much_ , you know, and it's no use thinking about some things." She doesn't look at him, but the not looking feels even more significant. After a minute she adds, "Oh, that Prince Harry _is_ a looker, these days. He's turned into such a lovely young man, hasn't he?"

"You like a man with a wild streak, eh Mrs Hudson?" John's grateful when she doesn't say something like _Well surely you can understand that, John . . ._

*

> 23 July, 12:00 (1 minute ago)

> Subject: none  
>  from: _Sherlock Holmes_  
>  to: _me_  
> 

> Why aren't you answering your phone? Ricoletti's wife is the key. Get off your computer and meet me at Blackfriars before she gets away.

> Bring your gun.

> Sent from my iPhone

John deletes it so forcefully the table shakes.

He somehow restrains himself from slamming his laptop shut and killing it once and for all, snatches up his keys and walks aimlessly for several blocks before he's quite able to think clearly again. Two years ago, John had felt nothing. Now, he was always vaguely nauseated, and the entire world felt offensive just for existing.

John is so busy moping he nearly runs over a gaggle of children whose bodies have been submerged in a sea of Wenlock and Mandeville merchandise. It's awfully creepy, really, what with their Cyclops eyes bulging and seeming to follow him when he moved.

John pushes through the crowds of people, always seems to be stuck against the current, and at one point passes a truly atrocious busker playing the violin. He chucks a tenner in his tip jar anyway. And near St Paul's John overhears some tourists comparing it (bafflingly) to the Vatican and has to stop himself from dropping to the pavement. John walks for so long his feet hurt and hint at blisters, but he likes that, because it's something to concentrate on whenever oblivious bystanders annoy him too much.

He ends up at a park, which is distressingly _more_ crowded by tourists. Thankfully a couple of detours across the lawns land him in a nicely secluded little area near the lake and off the beaten path. It's peaceful and calm and nothing out of the ordinary—just an innocuous pair feeding the ducks, one of those lanky hipster kids sketching something oh-so-bohemianly by the water's edge, and a man with a bow-tie leaning against a blue shed.

John finds a spot by the water for himself, draws his knees up and breathes in the grassy air. It's still relentlessly hot, but that's mainly from the sun, here, and the trees rustle with thick, pollinated summer wind. He doesn't often wish he lived in the country, and he doesn't now, either. Parks came with an entirely different sense of intercity calm—millions of people hurried from here to there and stressed and stressed all the livelong day, but smack in the middle of it all was a simple patch of green and trees and mutedness, and the peace of that was somehow greater than the vast emptiness of the countryside.

Except, for instance, when someone trips over you mid-daydream.

"Oh dear, I'm terribly sorry, my lad. Oh _dear_ . . . "

John is being pulled to his feet and dusted off by a stranger before he knows what's happening. "Er, thanks. It's fine. Sorry." One of those is bound to be the correct response.

One of the men who'd been feeding the ducks stands before him, beaming. "What a lovely day it is, wouldn't you say?" he beams. And then he beams some more for good measure. John gets a preemptive headache.

"Um, yes."

The man peers a little closer at him, and John squints against the sunlight that's caught in his hair and increased the beaming exponentially. "Oh, you poor thing." He makes a complicated gesture and the next thing John knows the man seems to have vanished in the blink of an eye.

He has clearly had more than enough sun for one day.

When John falls asleep later that night, after mindless hours of surfing through job listings and getting nowhere, he dreams about running through the streets with Sherlock with criminals on their heels and looking over at him and laughing.

*

Inside the flat it's not as hot as it is outside, but it's just as stagnant. John feels boxed in, here, but he much prefers that to braving the city streets and after awhile finding himsself unable to breathe the thick molten summer air.

> 28 July, 12:00 (1 minute ago)

> Subject: none  
>  from: _Sherlock Holmes_  
>  to: _me_  
> 

> Why aren't you answering your phone? Ricoletti's wife is the key. Get off your computer and meet me at Blackfriars before she gets away.

> Bring your gun.

> Sent from my iPhone

John considers not deleting any further ghosts of emails past, just to see if that stopped them.

He sighs and settles into his daily routine of scouring the internet for jobs, tweaking old resumes, and rereading half-written cover letters without ever completing anything. He spends a lot of time creating an impeccably organized folder for his bookmarks, which will hopefully make it too convenient to avoid putting off job hunting any longer. So far, this has not done much to motivate him.

John doesn't bookmark everything on the internet, but Google always remembers. That his own computer automatically substitutes _sh_ with _Sherlock Holmes fraud_ feels somehow unbearably intrusive. Those vindictive little doodles mock him daily, and it feels so cruel and unusual that he briefly toys with the idea of switching to another search engine, then realizes he can't even _think_ of any other search engines. He looks up articles written before and after, and gets so angry at the complete change in tone from the news outlets after, then sits and stews in it. He doesn't know why he does this to himself—it doesn't make him feel better, at all. All it does is distract him from the drawn out catastrophe of life with more immediate feelings of catastrophe.

His existence feels so stagnant that sometimes he's sure life with Sherlock had all been a thrilling dream. In fact he wishes it had been—he could've moved on from that.

Just before he logs off he's assaulted by a pop-up ad.

It's one of those inexplicably interactive jobs, with a nearly neon cup of tea emitting pixilated steam. You can click and drag milk or sugar into it, and hovering over the ad makes John's curser disappear.

 _How do you take your tea?_ it proclaims in flowery font that is somehow both simpering and offensive.

John can't identify the brand, but that might be because of the ad's seizure-inducing background.

He's reminded he's nearly out of sugar, which he couldn't stand in coffee but liked just a bit of in tea. Tea was supposed to feel homey and soothing, so milk and sugar felt necessary, somehow. Coffee was supposed to be about focus and adulthood, and so taking it black seemed the right thing to do.

He jots down a last minute list and hits up the Tesco around the corner.

In the shop someone reaches for the sugar at the same time as John, and their hand is pale and long-fingered and artistic looking. John just leaves without the sugar, and without turning around.

*

John is meandering down a thankfully empty street, breathing in the heady mix of pollution and summer flowers and letting it wash over him, no matter that he's sweating and in desperate need of a drink. He spots a pub, and yeah, maybe alcohol wasn't strictly speaking beneficial to his oncoming dehydration, but John can't bring himself to care.

John stands behind a man at a crosswalk in a long dark coat despite the weather. A frazzled pedestrian bumps into him when he doesn't move as soon as the light turns.

He pushes through the door to the pub at the same moment that a woman at the bar turns around mid laugh, catches sight of him, and looks suddenly terrified.

"John!" Donovan says, trying for genial and landing around hysterical.

A few drinks in and they've so far successfully avoided the elephant in the room by way of idle Olympics small talk and unmotivated inquiries after each other's well-being. He's not sure _how_ they've managed to avoid clashing for this long, but then again John's parents had trained him well in the time honored British tradition of always pretending things were utterly fine and dandy no matter what. John's phone chimes. He valiantly ignores it.

"So, you were saying?"

Donovan frowns. "Yeah . . . I mean, it's bloody mind-boggling that bodies can even bend that way, but then I suppose they _are_ athletes, so it's probably ju—"

John's phone chimes again and he swears under his breath.

"You gonna, er, get that?"

John fishes his phone out of his pocket, and the new email that pops up barely even fazes him anymore. He regrets setting email notifications on his phone, but then again the only reason he'd done it was _because_ of the Ricoletti case, so if ever Sherlock needed him—

John shoves his phone back in his pocket and downs half his pint.

> 2 August, 12:00 (1 minute ago)

> Subject: none  
>  from: from: _Sherlock Holmes_  
>  to: _me_  
> 

> Why aren't you answering your phone? Ricoletti's wife is the key. Get off your computer and meet me at Blackfriars before she gets away.

> Bring your gun.

> Sent from my iPhone

"Right," Donovan says, tucking hair behind her ear to kill time. She's dressed rather more attractively than usual, and John doesn't know why this gives him pause. It's harder to remember she's an enemy when she's in a sundress and smells like sun tan lotion. She looks at ease and carefree, and well, why shouldn't she? She's not on the job. With Sherlock, John had never _not_ been on the job. Then, as if in answer, she says, "It must be relaxing, I'd think. Life without the f—him."

John's jaw clenches and unclenches and can't seem to decide which is best. He goes for his beer again instead. "You're very lucky you're a woman, you know."

"Oh, I know." Donovan doesn't look at all concerned about being way out of line, but then again she never has been. John wonders if she'd respect him for punching her in her pretty dress in public. He thinks she might. "It's a bit hypocritical to be offended, you know. It's not as though Sherlock wasn't a right arse most of the time. And especially to Anderson. I happen to _like_ Anderson, you know, so it doesn't make me evil to be a bit miffed by the constant bullying he had to endure. Oh, and me too, by the way."

"Yeah, well, Anderson's a prick to Sherlock."

"Yes, and Sherlock was a prick to him."

John sighs. It doesn't _matter_ how much of an arse Sherlock is, you're not supposed to _encourage_ it by reacting. Did people learn nothing?

Donovan laughs, which does little to improve his mood. "Oh, I get it. You think I just don't understand what he was like."

John shrugs. "Well?"

"I understand exactly what Sherlock was like, and I also know exactly how dangerous that is."

John blinks rapidly, forces himself to think rationally above the blur of anger in his mind. "Sherlock wasn't dangerous. Sherlock put dangerous people behind bars, which is more than I can say for you."

Donovan lets that one go. "I don't mean _him_ being dangerous, I mean—"

John laughs. "Oh, really? You've certainly _said_ —"

"I know what I said. What I mean is that Sherlock was a dangerous friend. I've seen it happen to other people. They got so caught up in how exciting life was in Sherlock's world, or they were blinded by his brilliance or maybe they _liked_ how unapologetically cruel he could be—the boldness in that, like. Sometimes they just wanted to be him. But what every one of them failed to see was that his gravitational field had sucked them in, and by the time they did see it, it was too late. They'd already been consumed."

"That's very . . ." Don't say insightful, don’t say insightful. ". . . that's rather a heavy metaphor, don’t you think?"

"Listen, John, I don't know if you know this, but I went to school, live in the real world, and have even read books."

John laughs, less sarcastically. He nods at Donovan's near empty pint. "You want another?"

*

No email today, and John is immediately suspicious. Surely this meant that something even worse awaited him.

Thankfully the worst thing he comes across in his halfhearted perusal of job listings is another of those pop-ups. This one is almost identical to the tea one, but focuses instead on coffee. John hadn't known that companies were in the habit of manufacturing both, but he supposes it makes sense.

_How do you take your coffee?_

This has got to be the strangest pop-up ad campaign John's ever seen. Suddenly the ones advertising cures for wrinkles and free iPads seem incredibly reasonable.

John gets up to make tea, because what else was there to do, really? On his way into the kitchen he passes Sherlock's books and Sherlock's favorite chair and Sherlock's everything and realizes he can count his own possessions in the living room on one hand. It had never bothered him, before. Now, it felt uncomfortably symbolic.

He pointedly chooses one of his own tea mugs, and returns to his computer with a sigh. Brings the mug up to his lips and takes a nice, therapeutic sip of the satisfyingly scalding liquid.

John is interrupted from his reverie by an email alert.

> 4 August, 12:00 (1 minute ago)

> Subject: none  
>  from: _Sherlock Holmes_  
>  to: _me_  
> 

> Why aren't you answering your phone? Ricoletti's wife is the key. Get off your computer and meet me at Blackfriars before she gets away.

> Bring your gun.

> Sent from my iPhone

"Fucking _goddammit_!" he announces to the flat at large. When Sherlock's silent, watchful books offer no response, he adds, "God _dammit_!"

He stomps into Sherlock's room, ignores the pang of despair at merely passing the threshold for the first time in over a year and digs Sherlock's phone out.

" _What is wrong with you_?" he shouts at it. "What is your _fucking_ problem?"

He goes to unlock it, wanting to be blocked once again, of bloody course, from ever getting under Sherlock's skin in any way whatsoever, not even with a stupid, stupid phone he'd used to pull the rug out from under John's life before tossing it onto the roof of the hospital like it was nothing, and it'd had central London grime stuck in the buttons when they'd recovered it, the screen a tapestry of thumb swipes from Sherlock's living hands and John had stared at the horizontal streak across the bottom of the screen that would've unlocked Sherlock's phone when he'd called him that last time. John remembered wanting with vicious desperation to wipe it clean so that none of that had ever happened. Presently, John's breathless with an impending tirade aimed at an inanimate object that will in all likelihood end in him smashing it against the wall until it finally dies for good and just _leaves him alone_.

It's locked, as predicted, but somehow this causes all the fight to drain out of him, and he's left standing in Sherlock's abandoned room shaky and feeble and fucking achingly pathetic. He stops hyperventilating. Everything that's felt out of the ordinary in the past few weeks flashes across his mind. This must be what it feels like to be Sherlock, but unfortunately John's deduction skills aren't up to the task. The emails had been weird. They had been so weird, and they'd all been the same.

Wait, _exactly_ the same.

Four numbers for the passcode? John types _1 2 0 0_ and the phone clicks open. He barely pauses to wonder how it's even charged, too dizzy and breathless to differentiate reality and wishing.

There's an audio track already open.

> Unknown  
>  Took you long enough  
>  Unknown

John hits play before he can think about it.

>   
>  _John._   
> 

John's mouth goes dry.

> **_Not just John. . . ._ **

Moriarty? They hadn't ever tracked him down . . .

>   
>  _Mrs Hudson._   
> 

>   
>  _  
>  **Everyone!**   
>  _   
> 

>   
>  _Lestrade._   
> 

Wind licks at the recording intermittently, and John struggles to make out the words:

>   
>  _  
>  **. . . Unless my people see you jump. You can . . . you can torture me. You can do anything you like with me, but . . . pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die. Unless . . .**   
>  _   
> 

>   
>  _Unless I kill myself. Complete your story._   
> 

John hates how relieved he feels at the possibility that Sherlock hadn't done this in selfishness—and how selfish a thought was _that_?

> **_. . . Sexier._ **

> And I die in disgrace.
> 
> **. . . Got an audience now . . .**
> 
> A lengthy, windy pause. Or maybe that was Sherlock's breathing.
> 
> _Would you give me . . . one moment, please? One moment of privacy. Please?_

Sherlock's voice sounds so completely alien that John briefly doubts whether it's really him at all.

> Sherlock's laughter.

>   
> _You’re not going to do it? So the killers can be called off, then. There’s a recall code or a word or a number. I don’t have to die, if I’ve got you. _ That last bit is inexplicably sung.

>   
>  _  
>  **You think . . . stop the order? You think you can . . . ?**   
>  _   
> 

>   
>  _Yes. So do you._   
> 

>   
>  _  
>  **Sherlock, your big brother and all the king’s horses couldn’t make me do a thing I didn’t want to.**   
>  _   
> 

>   
>  _Yes, but I’m not my brother, remember? I am you. Prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn. Prepared to do what ordinary people won’t do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell, I shall not disappoint you._   
> 

>   
>  _  
>  **. . . You’re ordinary. You’re ordinary—you’re on the side of the angels.**   
>  _   
> 

>   
>  _Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don’t think for one second that I am one of them._   
> 

John pauses in his soon-to-be heart attack to wonder when Sherlock had taken to using so much religious imagery.

****

> **_No, you’re not . . . You’re me! Thank you, Sherlock Holmes. Thank you. Bless you. As long as I’m alive, you can save your friends. You’ve got a way out. Well, good luck with that._**

 ****

Sherlock's sharp intake of breath followed immediately by an earsplitting gunshot.

Nothing but wind and Sherlock's labored breathing, now. John doesn't know how to check whether the track is over on Sherlock's pointlessly fancy iPhone, so he just locks it and places it gingerly in the middle of Sherlock's bed like it might explode at any moment.

For a fierce red second John hates Sherlock for thinking John would need proof, as if he would've doubted him. But then rationality kicks in and John realizes the recording was most likely not intended solely for him, but then _that_ thought makes him go back to hating Sherlock, because here John was _again_ —just a handily loyal tool to be used and nothing more.

The sound of Sherlock's voice makes John remember stupid things like the comforting laundry soap smell of the shirt Sherlock wore to bed. He doesn't remember Sherlock's piercing eyes, or the first time they met, or the one time they kissed so very long after that. John remembers imperfections, physical and factual but sneakily loaded with emotion—Sherlock's bony spine, Sherlock's too-big feet, the stubborn patch of hair that went the wrong way, the tiny chickenpox scar beneath his collarbone, the restlessness of his hands, the way he says John's name . . .

Said.

*

After a couple of days John has to listen to the recording again in order to avoid going completely mad wondering whether he's missed something important. A second try doesn't yield any further insight, and honestly John isn't sure what he'd even been hoping to hear. He sighs, picks up the phone to lock it again.

>   
>  _Molly._   
> 

John makes a face.

>   
> 
> 
> _Change of plan. I need you to get rid of a body as well. No, what— I didn't—Molly. Molly. You're already getting rid of a body, so I fail to see why you're only now in hysterics about it, and I'd appreciate it if—yes, in fact I do consider screaming bloody murder in the middle of a highly time sensitive covert operation hysterics. No. Yes. No. No! Yes, of course I am. Yes! Oh, I honestly don't see how this is relevant._  
> 

> A put upon sigh.

>   
> _I'm sorry._ Sarcastic, but it apparently satisfies her, because John hears Sherlock's phone beep to signify an ended call, then scramble to speed dial another number.

>   
>  _Landing party to beam down. Mr Reagan's torn down the wall by now—there's no time left. He's already on Air Force One._   
> 

>   
>  _Puck won't be wandering over hill and over dale anymore. And er . . . hm . . . his shadow has permanently stopped offending._   
> 

>   
>  _If I didn't see it coming, then I somehow doubt that you did._   
> 

> Heavy breathing overtakes the recording once again.

>   
>  _John. I don't know when you'll be listening to this, but it might not be safe yet. Don't go advertising this to the papers or type up some cryptic new entry in your blog. Don't even tell Mrs Hudson. And don't bother asking Molly about any of this, because I couldn't tell her all the details, and she doesn't know where I am, now._   
> 

>   
>  _I certainly hope you've spread the word that I am a fraud through your blog and otherwise, but knowing you you've being a stubborn idiot and have refused to do anything of the kind, and might even have launched some sort of 'I believe in Sherlock' campaign. Really your loyalty is at once your most admirable and most detrimental trait._   
> 

>   
>  _If everything goes according to plan, I will still be alive whenever you hear this recording. However, I had not expected Moriarty to kill himself, at least not here or now, and this new development may have changed the situation drastically. For all I know, you and I are both dead, right now, and nobody will ever hear this, except perhaps Mrs Hudson. Indeed my passcode choice was deliberate so that she might be able to work it out eventually. But if you are dead, it's . . ._   
> 

>   
>  _It would be very annoying if you are dead right now, because that means all of this has been for nothing._   
> 

> Wind licks at the microphone for a small eternity.

>   
>  _John._   
> 

That tiny, painfully common word is like a physical jolt up John's spine.

>   
>  _Turn around and walk back the way you came now._   
> 

Oh.

>   
> 
> 
> _Just do as I ask. Please._

John locks the phone. He would rather risk losing precious new Sherlock syllables than be forced to relive that.

*

John gets fed up trying to flag down a taxi in Olympic-infested Earls Court, grumbles and wipes sweat from his probably sunburned forehead and is grateful that the Underground lacks in UV rays, at least.

He steps into a car that's brimming with happy families and more obvious than usual tourists, pushes through them and finds that the train isn't really all that crowded—they'd just congregated near the doors. John spots a nicely anti-social looking hipster near the back with his knees drawn up and resting on the seat in front of him while scribbling at a sketchpad and bopping his head to his music. Ah, youth. John makes a beeline for the pair of seats in front of him.

John considers taking out his halfhearted checklist of potential jobs, then decides it's too hot to do much more than breathe and attempt to relax into the questionable cushioning of his seat.

At least he'd actually gone to this interview. That was definitely an accomplishment, but it's not really very impressive since John had taken one look at the waiting room full of young doctors gossiping and ingratiating themselves to one another, quietly cutthroat around the eyes with ambition, and had just turned on his heel and left.

"Bloody hot out there, innit?"

John jumps. "Yeah. Yeah, it's brutal." It's truly pathetic that chatting about the weather with a faceless stranger on the Tube is more or less the highlight of his current social life, and goddammit hadn't John sat here to _avoid_ being talked at? Clearly brooding young recluses weren't as antiestablishment as they used to be. For shame.

Gratingly carefree laughter from behind him. "You come to London for the Games?"

"Er, no, I just live here."

"Ha, lucky for you!" He has one of those persistently lilting voices that either indicated falseness or stupidity. "My mate and me, we got kicked out of our place over in Newham so's the landlord could rent it out at three times the proper price, just 'cause people was willing to pay and be close to the stadiums."

"Oh. That's unfortunate." John really doesn't feel at all sympathetic, and he's sticky with sweat and _tired_ and just wants to go home. Well, no, he doesn't want that either, really. "It's likely a bad move on their part, though. How does your landlord expect to win renters back after the Games are over?"

"Ah well, it's cheap and it's familiar, d'you know what I mean?"

"Okay, but that doesn't mean it's, like, _good_ familiar."

"Maybe not, but it's what I'm used to."

"Well, I dunno, it's none of my business really, but maybe this is an opportunity for you to get out of a bad situation. Like a sign from the universe or something."

"No, there's no such thing."

John laughs. "You know, I never really thought so myself, but . . . yeah, I think it does happen sometimes, actually."

"What happened to you?"

"I mean, it doesn't really matt—"

"Tell me."

John's tone gets a little sharper. "Um, no thanks, mate."

The hipster lets out a snide laugh, which is noticeably at odds with the way he'd laughed before. "Even you aren't stupid enough to believe in fate."

John matches his snideness and raises him some indignation. "Sorry, but I don't think you can talk to me for two minutes and act like you know everything about me."

"Actually I can," the hipster says, although his voice seems to have dropped an octave in such a way that compels John to turn around and feel his eyes widen comically and his every muscle freeze.

The kid's got artfully mussed hair and chicly gigantic headphones on his head, is wearing a purposely vintage T-shirt featuring a silhouetted superhero, is slouching in his seat, has stunningly blue eyes, is Sherlock.

"Why . . . here?" John manages, and it comes out scratchy since his mouth's gone dry.

Sherlock's expression is stricken, which should look ridiculous while he's wearing that get-up (and especially the headphones), but somehow it only throws the seriousness of his face into sharper contrast. He says, "Well, you won't punch me in public. Probably."

John laughs without meaning to, but then Sherlock's mouth quirks up and the world slots back into place.

*

John squirms in the back of the taxi. Finally says, "Stop it."

Sherlock's been appraising him zealously for the last several blocks, or maybe John's just not used to the intensity of it, anymore. "I had no idea that you would be so . . . angsty."

"Well, I've always been angsty over you," John points out.

"Surprised you didn't faint, actually."

"Erm . . . why's that?"

"No reason."

Sherlock smells different. Trapped in the recycled air of a cramped taxi, John fixates on this. Sherlock smells like something young and trendy and overtly sexual. His entire demeanor has changed—he sits forward, hunching over with his arms crossed on his knees. His face is somehow more open. It's like he's not able to step out of character right away after so long, even under shelter of taxi.

"No," Sherlock says, sounding very much like himself. "I can't risk dropping the act until we're at home."

"Well. You've _told_ the cabbie . . . "

Sherlock gestures dismissively. "When has ignoring the presence of a cabbie ever hurt anybody?"

"Oh, so you're funny now?"

If John had felt underlyingly sick for the past year, then how the hell did he even begin to describe _this_ feeling? He doesn't feel happy or elated or anything. He feels strikingly normal, and like he can't fully process reality, except that the normalness is punctuated with painful heartbeats that catch in his throat whenever Sherlock speaks again.

John watches Sherlock staring into the middle distance and thinking and ignoring him like always. Why did John expect anything less? In an attempt to get his attention again, John says, "To be quite honest, I mainly just flabbergasted at your lack of coat."

Sherlock frowns. "It's the middle of _summer_ , John."

"That's never stopped you from dressing like it's Siberia, before," John points out.

Sherlock shifts in his seat. With some difficulty, considering the painted on jeans. "I'm perfectly comfortable in this."

"Come on, we can get you a nice preppy polo shirt or something, instead. You can pop the collar up and everything! You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Stop talking to me like I'm a child."

John holds up his hands. "I'm not the one wearing a bloody comic book shirt, and sorry, do you even know who Nightcrawler is?"

"Kurt Wagner, alias Nightcrawler, is a member of the X-Men. His superpowers are invisibility, teleportation, acrobatics, and night vision. Nightcrawler is a mutant character in the Marvel comic books universe."

John blinks. "Um, right."

"I merely chose this shirt because I recognized the protagonist from our time with Chris Melas. As you can see, because of this I am more than prepared to explain the meaning behind the shirt, should anyone think to ask."

"Ah." John looks out the window again. Looking at Sherlock in general was an effort, let alone ghost!Sherlock in skinny jeans. "So, you did all this but didn't think to dye your hair?"

"I hardly think dying my hair was necessary to playing this role."

John nods, watches the rest of the world spin by, people decked out in patriotic clothes from head to toe while the relentless summer sun bears down on them. He feels safe here inside the taxi, removed from people and able to think better.

Sherlock's gone back to scribbling in his sketchpad.

"What _are_ you drawing in that thing, anyway?"

Sherlock hands the sketchpad over. It's a list of names. They're numbered, but not in order—oh hang on, that one sounds familiar. Actually, many of them do . . . "You're . . . predicting how athletes will place. What for? Is this your version of Sudoku?"

Sherlock studies his nails. "I've a number of contacts who will benefit from this information."

John hands the sketchpad back. "So you're counting cards for gambling addicts, basically."

"Basically."

"And you don't see the moral dilemma in that?"

Sherlock frowns. "Charity to the homeless and, consequently, increased probability of apprehending murderers? I'll never understand you ordinary people and your _morality_."

John raises an eyebrow. "Right." He drums his fingertips on his knee. "You could've been less dramatic about this, you know."

"About what?"

"This," John nods. "All of this. You might've just texted me. Seems like the sort of thing you'd do . . . "

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Oh, does it indeed? You thought I was going to do what, exactly, send you a text telling you you're an idiot to prove I'm alive or something? I couldn't risk any of Moriarty's operatives tracking me."

"Oh right." Remembering about Moriarty makes John remember about their first encounter with him, and Sherlock making John deduce things about a shoe in some sort of convoluted attempt at apology. Remembers their second meeting and the look in Sherlock's eyes throughout, glancing at him and seeming so utterly terrified. Remembers Sherlock plummeting from the roof and the way he's never been able to erase that image from the backs of his eyelids. John takes a deep breath, because his real reality and his helplessly hopeful dream reality are clashing, now. "Right."

Sherlock continues to stare at him. "You all right?" he murmurs.

"No, not really, no."

"It's pointless of you to care so much," Sherlock says, but John thinks it might be Sherlock-speak for _I'm sorry_.

"You do know I love you."

"Yes . . . " Sherlock scans him, but apparently finds nothing. " _Why_ do you?"

John shrugs. "Someone's got to."

*

Sherlock's body makes a disproportionately muted sound when his back meets the door, so forcefully that he drops his trendy satchel and upsets the kiss.

"So you do want this?" Sherlock asks breathlessly. He looks right at John and doesn't even detour to study the state of the untouched flat.

"Dunno," John says. "I think so. Just come here."

Sherlock leans in to kiss him before he's even got the words out, and John tumbles backward a bit so Sherlock has to steady him, which involves being pulled swiftly against him and their bodies pressing together from head to toe. This reminds John of his horribly pent up lust even more forcefully than the kissing had, especially considering the very obvious proof of how Sherlock's feeling about the whole endeavor straining against his thigh.

John had caught Sherlock's forearms when he'd fallen. Now, he spins Sherlock around until they've found a handy wall again because John doesn't want to stand in the middle of the living room swooning in each other's arms—he wants to trap Sherlock against an unyielding surface somewhere and get him to beg John for more.

John glimpses the smiley face out of the corner of his eye, backs Sherlock up against the bookshelf instead and upsets his flimsy wire music stand which has been collecting dust for a year now. Sheet music wafts weakly to the floor while Sherlock fists his hands in John's sweaty shirt. John kisses him harder and increasingly inefficiently, and the bookshelf at Sherlock's back creaks in protest like it's speaking on Sherlock's behalf.

"Yes," John gasps when they come up for air.

"Sorry?"

"Of course I want this. It's probably been obvious to _you_ for ages."

"I . . . well yes."

"Yes." His eyes flick down to John's mouth again. Sherlock then licks his lips and John leans in to help him out with that.

Sherlock should seem boyish, considering his outfit, but instead the tight gauzy clothes only serve to emphasize his wiry muscle and tallness and the width of his shoulders, the heat of his groin and the painful press of his hip digging into John's stomach.

John can't determine whether he wants to punish Sherlock or please him or if he just selfishly wants him, but he feels very sure that he can't go another second without reducing Sherlock to basic human instincts and chemical reactions beyond his not inconsiderable control.

John tears Sherlock's stupid shirt off, irrationally angry at it because he'd wanted to kiss him while unbuttoning that sleek black shirt of his he'd worn the last time John had seen him.

Sherlock's hair flops around like it's trying to escape while the shirt squeezes over his head, then settles messily. His hair's more frizzy than usual due to heat and lack of product, and also because John's got his fingers buried in it now, twisting and knotting thoughtlessly.

Sherlock's chest is sweaty, tastes like salt under John's mouth and the velvety heat of his skin makes kissing it like licking up liquid chocolate. Sherlock doesn't say anything while John explores, but his breath quickens and grows shallower, and when John chances to glance at his face Sherlock's staring into the middle distance like always, except his expression is dazed and gloriously mindless.

John struggles with the fly of Sherlock's impossibly tight jeans. "Good God, how did you even get into these?"

"Very carefully." Sherlock inhales more than says it. He then attempts to shoo John's hands away. "John, let me—"

But John silences him with a kiss, somehow manages to capture Sherlock's wrists and yanks his hands to the side and out of the way while shoving Sherlock's jeans the rest of the way off. Once he's worked his hand inside Sherlock's pants he feels Sherlock's arms drain of tension and lets him go, maneuvers Sherlock's pants a bit farther down too and spits into his hand and strokes Sherlock's cock.

John can't get used to the transparent emotion on Sherlock's face, and he definitely can't look away. Sherlock stays quiet but catches John's sleeve and grips it like it's life support. John jerks him faster and Sherlock's eyes don't so much widen as darken and rove dizzily over John's face. They breathe and stare at each other while John strokes him and it isn't until Sherlock's thighs quiver and his eyes shut and he comes that he finally lets out a moan, broken and unbidden and pressed into John's shoulder.

John wipes his hand on Sherlock's ridiculous jeans, which are gathered even more ridiculously around his knees, and a siren sounds in the distance. When he glances up again Sherlock still looks otherworldly.

"I can't . . . stand," Sherlock says, blinking at his words. He then switches to blinking at John, which sends another rush of heat straight to his cock and reminds him that he's been hard since they'd first got into that bloody cab. "John . . . it's _hot_ in here. Oh." Steadies himself. "I'm . . . going to faint?"

John laughs. "Come on, the sofa's just here." He tries to lead him over.

"No no, this is fine. Convenient, really . . ." Sherlock slides down the bookshelf bumpily, upsetting yet more useless junk (none of it is John's) until he's sitting on the floor in a pool of crumpled sheet music. John hasn't had time laugh again or ask what he's doing before Sherlock unbuckles John's belt and pulls his cock out, looking very loftily detached about the whole thing.

Sherlock turns his head and takes it into his mouth. Sucks softly, then pulls back to lick lazily at the head and spread saliva down the shaft. He jerks him off, _hard_ , and covers the tip with his mouth again, tongue swirling. John grips the bookshelf, fingernails scraping through layers of dust, and tries not to come immediately.

Sherlock's free hand cups John's balls, massages them as he bobs his head, taking John's cock deeper with every stroke, or maybe that's just an illusion caused by how fucking hard John's heartbeat is pulsing, in his throat so he can't speak and pounding coherency out of his head and throbbing demandingly between his legs. Obscenely wet sound as Sherlock pulls off John's cock entirely and switches to breathless sucking kisses from base to tip.

"Oh God oh please oh _come on_ ," John gasps. Sherlock gives an amused little _hm_ and complies. He bobs faster over John's cock, grips the base firmly but never sucks quite hard enough so John grits his teeth and pounds his fist against the bookshelf in delicious frustration, thrusts into Sherlock's mouth and Sherlock just lets him without pause, and God that's hot, just unfairly hot . . .

Sherlock gives a tonal exhale that ghosts over John's cock and the sound of it is somehow the most erotic thing John's ever heard.

" _Fuck_ . . . " It only takes a few more frantic strokes before John comes.

*

Later, once they've actually made it to the sofa, John says, "What did you mean, though?"

Sherlock stares at him, patiently. Which is to say, not patiently at all. "Do I really have to tell you to be more specific, John?"

"In the recording. You said Mrs Hudson could have figured out the passcode too. How, though? You were only sending those emails to me, right?"

Sherlock frowns. "What emails?"

"The—the _emails_! Always coming at the same time of day—12:00. You think I didn't notice that? I wasn't born yesterday, you know." Sherlock didn't have to know how _long_ it had taken him to figure it out . . .

Sherlock's frowning even more, if that's possible. "Did you not get the pop-up ads? Oh, I was _sure_ I'd disabled your pop-up blocker . . ."

"Hang on, those were _you_?"

"Yes, of course. You didn't think it was bit odd to have a sudden influx of pop-up ads when you'd never had any, before? Of course I took great care to mimic internet advertising tactics so as to avoid arousing your suspicion, but clearly I did it a bit too well."

"Oh yes, you're a regular Don Draper."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Another Godfather reference, I take it."

"No." Frowns. "Wha—? _No_."

Sherlock snaps to attention, stares unblinkingly at John to say, "The code, which you apparently stumbled upon out of pure luck is 1 2 0 0. In your tea you take one sugar and two creams—in coffee, neither. In another year's time assuming that I'd been taken out of the equation Mrs Hudson was to begin receiving similar fake ads. Aside from you only myself, Mrs Hudson, and possibly my brother would've known your preferences. All trustworthy people. And my brother."

John has to catch his breath. He'd forgotten how those felt. "Okay, but how did you know if I'd even look at your phone?"

"Naturally you'd get curious, after awhile."

"O- _kay_ but how was your phone even charged?"

"Doesn't matter." John raises his eyebrows. Sherlock eventually relents with a sigh: "I didn't think you'd appreciate that Mycroft's operatives were crawling about the flat without your knowledge."

"Sorry, _Mycroft_ 's known this whole time? And he hasn't even . . . ? Well, of course he hasn't."

"And Molly. If you're wanting to add her to your hit list."

"Yes, and Molly! How the _hell_ did you keep her quiet?"

"Well, blackmail."

John nods. They stare at each other for a good minute before dissolving into laughter.

John doesn't feel any different. He feels like a jumble of nerves and worry that upset his stomach, and he wonders if he's always felt this way but just never noticed it when Sherlock was busy hijacking his thoughts, life, and instinct for self preservation.

He wonders if the only reason he'd wanted Sherlock back was because that meant he hasn't the time to sort out his own life . . .

Sherlock sort of slumps against him on the sofa, and his shoulder's bony, and his skin is sweaty, and he relaxes into John like he does when he plays the violin.

. . . Maybe not the only reason.

*


End file.
